


The Bridge

by drswriting



Category: BBC Sherlock, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Drowning, Lots of it, Reunion!fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-01
Updated: 2013-05-01
Packaged: 2017-12-10 01:48:51
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,437
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/780372
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/drswriting/pseuds/drswriting
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The irony, John thought, might just kill him. That is, if the below freezing water of the Thames doesn’t do the job first. His head ached and his lungs screamed in protest as he tried to find the surface. Blackness swirled around him making it impossible to tell which way was up and which was down. Anger, frustration, and desperation swept through him as he floundered hopelessly in the heavy darkness.</p><p>            Sherlock.</p><p>            Ironic indeed that his face should be the last John sees. He choked, felt the water burning down his throat. Those grey blue piercing and panic stricken eyes were the last conscious thought he had as he sank to the bottom of the Thames…</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Bridge

**Author's Note:**

> A reunion fic! It sort of establishes itself in the timeline, but it starts after Sherlock's "death" at the end of S2.
> 
> This monster just sort of exploded out of me in one sitting. And it's over a year old now...

_The irony, John thought, might just kill him. That is, if the below freezing water of the Thames doesn’t do the job first. His head ached and his lungs screamed in protest as he tried to find the surface. Blackness swirled around him making it impossible to tell which way was up and which was down. Anger, frustration, and desperation swept through him as he floundered hopelessly in the heavy darkness._

_Sherlock._

_Ironic indeed that **his** face should be the last John sees. He choked, felt the water burning down his throat. Those grey blue piercing and panic stricken eyes were the last conscious thought he had as he sank to the bottom of the Thames…_

 

            The time passed so slowly for him. It was the most he could ask of life when he lost track of the time. The horrid first week after Sherlock’s death stretched out in his memory, lasting several lifetimes. Several lifetimes of days spent in the graveyard, nights spent crying in the privacy of 221B, and any time spent sleeping ultimately ended in violent nightmares. It was at the end of that week, after that last visit to Sherlock’s grave – and the confession he gave there - that he knew he had to get away from 221B. It was perhaps his one last act of self-preservation ( _or cowardice_ ), to try and escape that immediate pain.

            Life went on, of course. It always does. For almost the entire year after Sherlock’s death, he tried to continue to work at the surgery with Sarah. Not because he wanted to, but because he knew it was healthy to maintain a sense of normalcy. But his limp returned, and his shoulder was stiff and sore most days. For a few rather bleak months, John even found himself at the bottom of the bottle. ( _Pathetic._ ) He knew drink wasn’t the answer. All it took in the end was a visit from Harry, whose phone calls he’d been dodging. That conversation had ended in the most overwhelming feeling of guilt and shame he had ever been privy to. The next day found all the alcohol in his tiny one room flat being poured down the sink.

Today, his therapist suggested swimming and he had laughed, laughed himself to tears.

            “I didn’t mean it as a joke, John,” Ella said, eyebrows knitting together with worry. “The water is good for your shoulder and it’s therapeutic.” John chuckled himself back to silence and wiped a few stray tears off his face.

            “I know, God I know. It’s just, I can’t really see myself going back there is all.”

            “Going back where, exactly?”

            John shook his head, the smile sliding off his face. The solid, heavy feeling returned to the pit of his stomach. He left the appointment early, angry with himself. He never allowed himself to remember. It was one thing for life to spring unpleasant surprises, but it was another entirely to think of it on purpose. He was already halfway out the door of the office building before realizing he didn’t have his cane. He froze, hand on the railing, head down, and eyes screwed shut. He clenched his shaking left hand and stormed away, too stubborn and determined now to go back for it. A plan was already forming in his mind. John tightened his coat around him against the blustery January wind and dug into his pocket for his mobile. He quickly phoned Lestrade, who was rightfully surprised.

            “John?” Lestrade asked, shock ringing in his tone even over the phone. John tried not to grind his teeth and reminded himself what it was he needed.

            “Yeah, yeah it’s me Greg.” There was a pause in which neither party spoke.

            “So… What can I do for you?” It was a sincere question, filled with meaning that John wasn’t sure he wanted to examine too closely.

            “Well. I was wondering if… if you needed help on a case.” He started slowly, but soon the words tumbled out of his mouth painfully. “I know I’m not him. God knows, no one could be. But Greg, I need something. I’ve got to do… something. I’m no good at the surgery anymore. Sarah’s afraid to look at me. I swear I won’t punch out any of the Yarders, honest. I just have to do something. Because right now, the nothing is too much.” What John didn’t say, what he barely could stop himself from saying was that he finally maybe understood a fraction of what Sherlock really meant when he said he was bored. There was a deep sigh from the other end.

            “Jesus John, we’re pretty hard up for help over here. Ever since… Well you know better than anyone that it’s not the same.” John let out a sharp, bark like laugh.

            “Oh, I can imagine. I bet – ( _Sherlock_ ) - bet he would roll over in his grave if he knew.” Neither man commented on John’s hesitation to say Sherlock’s name.

            “How fast do you think you could get down here?” Lestrade asked, a smile in his voice.

            “About as fast as it takes for me to limp to a cab. Be there soon as I can.” John pocketed his mobile, a grim smile set on his features, and limped to the main road to hail a cab.

 

            Hindsight is twenty-twenty. John knew the expression well. He should have been familiar enough with it to prevent him from doing anything regrettable. But three days, very little food, and even less sleep later found him limping the length of his small flat. The case Lestrade had needed help with was a double homicide. It wasn’t as if there had been anything particularly peculiar or remarkable about the murders. John smirked; thinking of Sherlock’s rating system and figuring this for a six. It wouldn’t even have bothered the great detective enough to force him to leave the flat ( _their flat_ ), but John was up all hours of the night pulling his hair out.  Anger washed through him, hot and heavy, leaving a metallic taste in his mouth and fists clenched tightly enough that his nails were digging into his palms. He growled in frustration, and threw himself down on his single bed.

            Both victims had been killed by a single, very accurate gunshot wound to the heart. Both victims had also been university age, making the killings all the more tragic. The killings happened on Westminster Bridge at the same hour in the night. ( _Boring._ ) This alone had to be a clue. Perhaps the killer was sending a message to the House of Commons? ( _Too obvious, John._ ) He brought a fist down hard on his nightstand, resulting in nothing more productive than a throbbing hand. ( _Idiotic_.)

            Before he knew what he was doing, he was sprinting out of his flat, hailing the nearest cab. It had been three nights since the last murder, and another three nights before that since the very first. A three night pattern. Maybe it didn’t mean anything, maybe it meant everything. John didn’t plan to sit around the shoebox-sized flat ( _not home_ ) any longer to debate it. The cab hurtled across London as John called Lestrade and explained his theory in quick, clipped sentences.

            “John, can’t you just wait for us? Before you go gallivanting off - ”

            “I’m sorry, Greg.” he said, and hung up before he could begin to have doubts. Lestrade cursed at his phone and rounded up any officers that were still around at this time of the night to hurry off after John.

 

            The adrenaline coursed through him quickly now. His limp forgotten, John ran the short distance to the edge of Westminster Bridge. He paused, huffing and out of breath, scanning for any signs of people. A ways down he could see a homeless man curled partially under a bench, attempting to hide from the wind that was biting at John’s face and hands. His Sig dug into the waistband of his pants, a friendly reminder that he should keep a lookout. John leaned up against a light pole, eyes still searching across the span of the bridge, and pulled the gun out slowly. A tall figure in black at the opposite end of the bridge caught his eye.

            John’s breath stuck in his throat. He’d recognize that hair, that ridiculous mess of dark curls anywhere. His arms fell limply to his sides, hand loosely cradling the gun long forgotten. Without knowing what he was doing, his feet stumbled forward of their own accord. It was even that same stupid, stupid coat with collar turned up. His breathing had returned, but was now quick and shallow. The man in the coat turned at the sound of John’s footsteps. The second their eyes met, John was glued in place, clutching helplessly at the railing.

            _SHERLOCKSHERLOCKSHERLOCKSHERLOCKSHERLOCK_

The name rebounded countless times in his mind. The detective’s eyes widened in shock. John wanted to laugh, wanted to move to touch him to see that he was real. Sherlock’s eyes quickly became guarded as he took a cautious step towards John.

An instant was all it took for everything to change.

The small man huddled beneath the nearby bench stirred. Sherlock broke eye contact with John for a fraction of a second. The man rose to his feet, gun in hand, eyes on John and his pistol. Sherlock’s panic-stricken expression was more than enough to bring John’s arm up to take aim. A shot rang out from the killer’s gun and John instinctively moved towards Sherlock, to protect him. The killer sprinted towards John, shouldering him out of the way to make his escape.

It never should have happened. John lost his footing, smashed his head into the light pole, and tumbled over the railing. Down, down, down into the Thames, his own name ringing sharply in his ears, Sherlock’s blue eyes blazing in his mind.

            _The irony, John thought, might just kill him. That is, if the below freezing water of the Thames doesn’t do the job first. His head ached and his lungs screamed in protest as he tried to find the surface. Blackness swirled around him making it impossible to tell which way was up and which was down. Anger, frustration, and desperation swept through him as he floundered hopelessly in the heavy darkness._

_Sherlock._

_Ironic indeed that **his** face should be the last John sees. He choked, felt the water burning down his throat. Those grey blue piercing and panic stricken eyes were the last conscious thought he had as he sank to the bottom of the Thames…_

            Sherlock Holmes did not believe in “sentiment”. Or so he thought. Or so he would have said years ago. In the years before John Watson came into his life. Maybe it was just that he had never understood it. Never wanted to understand it. Not until John.

            That frigid January night was a mistake. Sherlock had known. Sherlock had followed all of Lestrade’s cases when the trail leading to Moriarty’s web had gone cold, of course. He had followed the killer to the bridge. He had remained a distance away, watching silently, waiting for the right moment in which to overtake him. He’d leave the man beaten in front of Scotland Yard. He had known as well that John had decided to take an interest in the case. It was why Sherlock had to put an end to it. The thought of losing John had been…unbearable.

            John was never supposed to get this far. Never supposed to have made it out of his sorry excuse for a flat. Never should have known which end of the bridge to be at, what time of the night, day of the week, even. It was disastrous. And with one look, Sherlock could not undo what he had done. He would never be able to delete that particular image from his mind - the total and complete haunted and defeated look that had made its home in his friend’s eyes - if it were not for the next set of events.

            The gunman heard John’s clumsy approach. He emerged from his hiding place. Sherlock could see it before it happened. Something rooted him to the spot, frozen with fear. Sentiment. Traitorous sentiment. The killer discharged his gun at the sky (a distraction) before John could take aim, and rushed John in order to make his escape. It was clear and predictable, his own sense of self-preservation winning out over John’s reflexes. The sound of John’s head against metal echoed in his ears as he watched his friend – his best friend – go head over heels down into the Thames.

            “ _JOHN!_ ”

            It was one single cry, one moment of sheer panic and weakness, before Sherlock had shed his coat and scarf and flung himself into the river. The water was ice cold and black as night. The cold pushed the air out of him. He could not stop. He had to reach John. He had to ensure his safety. His hands latched on to the first solid thing they bumped into and hauled it to the surface. His entire body was shaking, but it was nothing, it was only a slight annoyance in comparison to the total terror he felt.

            He may have scoffed at sentiment in the past, but he would not now. Not with John limp in his arms.

            “Oy!” A call from above shattered Sherlock’s thought process. He looked up, struggling to keep them both afloat, to see Lestrade’s worried face. There would be time for explanations later. He sincerely hoped.

            “Ambulance. _NOW!_ ” he roared, edging towards the shore. Then, his heart leapt in his chest as John stirred feebly in his arms. Sherlock worked quickly to pull an indifferent expression. “Do try to be faster next time,” he murmured in John’s ear. “After all, I thought you were a soldier.” John groaned softly as Sherlock grabbed hold of the retaining wall to wait for rescue.

            “S’not my fault, Sherlock,” John said through numb lips. “Could’ve warned me. Something. ‘stead of that st-stupid look you had on your face.” He could hear Sherlock’s eyes roll, he was sure of it. A minute or so passed in tense silence, in which they listened to the sound of the ambulance growing louder.

            “You’re not – not angry?” Sherlock said so softly, that had he not been holding John, the words might have been lost to him. A rescue crew arrived above them, and dropped a lift down to them. “John?”

            “There’ll be time for that,” John whispered, gripping Sherlock’s wrist tightly, feeling the thrum of his pulse. “I’m just glad there is time.”


End file.
